


Prince of the Woods

by Dacro



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, Arthurian, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-13
Updated: 2006-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:16:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dacro/pseuds/Dacro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>A simple tale of Severus – bastard, slave, journeyman, teacher, lover, madman and friend.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after I finished reading Mary Stewart's Merlin trilogy. The mood, style and setting really touched me, so this AU tale of Severus' life is my tribute to an author who inspired me to challenge myself.

Title: Prince of the Woods  
Author: [](http://dacro.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dacro.livejournal.com/)**dacro**  
Characters: Severus, Albus, Lily and Harry  
Setting: AU (with an historical fiction feel)- Loosely set in the time of Merlin with an exception to the mention of Abbeys, which were not around until a little later.  
Rating: PG - Implied slavery, character death, and sex  
Betas: [](http://saladbats.livejournal.com/profile)[**saladbats**](http://saladbats.livejournal.com/) and [](http://moonlite-tryst.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://moonlite-tryst.livejournal.com/)**moonlite_tryst** Thank you two for all your work and encouragement. I dedicate this to you.  
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the worlds created by JKR, or Mary Stewart  
Summary: **A simple tale of Severus – bastard, slave, journeyman, teacher, lover, madman and friend.**

Notes: I wrote this after I finished reading Mary Stewart's Merlin trilogy. The mood, style and setting really touched me, so this AU tale of Severus' life is my tribute to an author who inspired me to challenge myself.

Feedback is always welcome.

  
The bards and village tale-tellers who make it their business to keep the history of this area alive have many different versions of my life story. Most of the accounts end with the depiction of the discordant doctor, old for thirty-nine, who by day wanders the sacred forest and ancient hills, and by night medicates away his grief as he stares into the fire for visions of his lost love. Just as rumours are often coloured with the truth, so there is a morsel of fact in this tale also.

They call me Prince of the Woods, but it has more to do with my mother's name than any royal blood that might flow in my veins, and it's better than _Bastard_ , although that’s what the adults called me when I was a boy. My mother—even until her last breath—never disclosed my father's name, so I was known by hers. On my first day on this earth, she named me Severus Prince, and died a few days later from loss of blood, or so I was told. Unfortunately, reliable records are often reserved for the wealthy, and for members of the scribe's family.

It is also true that I am a doctor, of sorts, although I have been known as a holy man by some and a wicked enchanter by others. My first ten years I was raised by a man who had lost all of his sons in a fire and was willing to take me in, along with my half-brother, on the promise that we were healthy and strong, and would one day be worth some silver as slaves. He sold us for much more than he thought we were worth, to a journeyman who peddled medicine and treated minor injuries in exchange for copper coins, food or wine. We sensed he was a good man by the way he dealt with the poor, and we put up no fuss when we were told to collect our things, place them in the cart and then tend to his mules.

His name was Albus, from the Latin word for white. A fitting name, since he was pale and beyond grey when we came to be his, although, the singers now call him Albion, the Ancient. I took to him like a son, showing an aptitude for learning anything he could teach me of plants, medicines, beasts, birds, earth, and the names of all the old gods who provided them. My brother, we quickly discovered, only had love for one god, the Christian One, so Albus set him free after teaching him enough of reading and writing to be accepted into the monastery two villages east of where we were born.

He lives there still.

Eight years my master and I wandered the hills, valleys and cliffs, providing service to the common folk, learning to communicate in their languages and dialects, and accepting anything in return for our service that they could spare. Time and the aching joints of an old man eventually dictated that Albus retire from the rough traveller's life. Since he had become somewhat of an honoured elder, we were provided with a gift from the people who lived in the shadow of my brother's Abbey, a small cottage in the hills. It had once been the home of an old hermit who cared for one of the sacred shrines dedicated to the old gods who the people believe still inhabited the forest, but we were told it had lain empty after his death, waiting for a new master who would attend the gods.

It was small for two men, a common area and one small bed chamber, but we quickly made plans to expand. The kitchen was adapted to provide enough room for making our wares and drying the flowers, fruit and herbs we would need. Space for storage was found both above and below ground, and Albus designed a sheltered garden and a round hove for the mules that awed the people of the village who brought supplies for the renovations. Every now and again, a curious visitor, noting only the one narrow bed, would inquire where I slept. When I pulled out the low cot covered with straw that I stored under my master's bed during the day, they would either fall quiet again, or praise my workmanship.

I turned eighteen that winter, and Albus granted me my freedom, although the thought of leaving him never entered my mind. He insisted that he had strength enough to tend to the shrine, collect the offerings, and provide for anyone who climbed our hill for the medicines they needed. I remember, and I can still hear his warm voice, telling me that the gods were jealous, and if I didn't take myself a wife, they would claim me eventually as their own. I laughed, kissed his rough cheek and prepared for the journey we took every year, except now I would be the journeyman, not the apprentice, and I would be going alone.

The years of war had ended by the time I was old enough to crawl, but it left parts of the land badly scarred and uninhabitable, and other regions crowded and in need of leadership and engineers. Within one day's ride in all four directions of my home were four kingdoms, each capped with their own lesser king. This meant a growing need for servants, farmers and tradesmen willing to be of service, and also meant that someone like me, didn't need to wander too far in order to sell my balms, set broken bones, or lay to rest any of the unfortunate souls who did not survive the winter.

During that time, there were several pleasant women who spared a look for the young doctor, but I was content to keep busy with my work and care for my master. As any boy of eighteen, I looked and wondered, but never invited more than a polite kiss. I don't know if any would have considered me handsome, but those thoughts never took up too much of my time. I found it far more satisfying to be considered skilled and educated.

In the spring of my twentieth year, Albus and I fell in love with the same woman.

She was of royal blood, granddaughter of King Edward of the North, but a bastard child of Princess Alexandra and one of the King's men, Maurus. Since she was promised to another man, there could be no marriage. The child was considered an embarrassment to the court, and she was sent to live with her father's cousins in the hamlet that lay on the western edge of my forest. Shortly after her arrival, her father was commissioned into service with the High King. We never heard another word of him, but his daughter was easily recognised for the sunset-fire hair, emerald eyes, and streak of stubbornness they both shared.

Her name was Lilith.

She was thirteen when I hired her and her cousin Cecilia to prepare daily meals for Albus and assist him whenever necessity dictated I leave our cottage. Cecilia only ventured up the hill a few times before she declared the forest 'haunted' and refused to return, but Lily, as I later came to call her, appeared every day without fail, even through weather most men would not venture out into.

When I returned after months of travel, I was greeted by the sounds of a sweet voice accompanied by harp, and the aroma of a waiting supper, fit for a king. Albus sat in his chair by the fire, covered with a warm blanket. He looked weary and his skin was of poor colour, but there were joyful tears in his eyes as she sang a song I had never heard before.

Lady roams the trees and the hollow hills  
Once servants she had many  
Now they scorn and call her Witch  
And tell tales of her treachery

When the woods were rich and green  
And she of two and twenty  
Followed her a rich young man  
And bed him upon the ivy

He woke alone on autumn ground  
Her laughter on the wind  
Vowed him to Esos, god of willow wild  
She would be his again

Behind locked doors with iron chains  
He tried to hold her still  
But no device of men can hold  
The Goddess of the hills

When she had finished, she set the small harp beside her on the floor and placed her cheek on Albus' knee. He stroked her hair as if he were a proud father, and thanked her for her kindness. I was standing at the door, arms full of supplies, frozen in the moment until Albus' cough shook me back to awareness. I can still feel the effects of her smile when her eyes finally lifted to mine, and the way my heart warmed when she bowed her head and whispered, 'My lord, Severus. Welcome home.' She rose from where she had been kneeling, relieved me of my burdens and saw to the mules before I was aware of my master's call to come in and tell him of my journey.

I was surprised to learn that Lily took to the study of medicines and healing as fast as I had, and was never far from Albus' side while I was away. He taught her everything he could during the spring and summer months and she had planted, collected, harvested, dried and assembled everything in the order he dictated. As he sipped his wine, eyes ever full of mischief, he mentioned that I had outgrown my bed, and would need to make myself a new one. My small truckle bed had been set in the main room, against the far wall, but close enough to the fire if the nights became cold.

It was now hers.

The bards have their own, more colourful accounts of what transpired in our hills that winter, but what I tell you is the truth. From that day, two became three, and she became a dying man's joy, and a young man's friend.

Albus had collapsed three weeks before my return. When Lily found him in the morning, struggling to stand, she cared for him and refused to leave after nightfall. I assumed Albus would be more feeble when I returned, but I wasn't fully prepared to see only a shadow of the man I considered a father. As I sat and talked the week away with him, a small voice in my mind whispered that this would be the last Christmas I would spend in his company.

One afternoon, a man and his wife, on their way to leave an offering at the shrine, greeted me from the path. I offered them food by a warm fire, and in return, they carried a letter back to my brother at the monastery. I knew he would want to see Albus and pray over him when it was time. I started building a larger bed, and it was ready by the time my brother rounded his mare up the old trail. People showed our monks more respect than they did the kings, and yet, he was not above helping me drag the old man's bed close to the fire in the larger room, or assisting with the assembly of the new bed we would share until it was time for him to return.

Lily was holding Albus' hand the night he finally slipped away from us and into his rest—Christmas Eve, the High King's birthday. My master's last wish was for Lily to stay on at the cottage as my assistant, continuing her studies in the winter, and caring for the cottage, garden and shrine in the summer when I traveled. She was delighted with the news, but the quiet days that led into the New Year told me that I wasn't the only one deeply affected by Albus' passing.

When the snow was thin enough to uncover the trail, I set out again for the villages, making a brief stop to arrange for Lily's relatives to check on her twice a week. She held her own against beast and storm, but thieves rode through the forests from time to time, although less than in years past. A young girl, living alone was too tempting a lure if any immoral man were to catch wind of the situation.

Much like the transformation of caterpillar to butterfly, three short years turned a girl of fourteen into a woman of seventeen. I gradually discovered that extending the hours of our lessons together, and watching the graceful sway of her body as she worked the bread dough and hung the wet clothes, took priority over traveling down into the valley to peddle and heal in the villages.

She still slept in the main room at night, although now on Albus' bed, not the small truckle bed hidden beneath it, waiting for any weary travellers or guests who happened to pass our way. The door between the two rooms closed only for privacy when changing clothes or bathing. When I sat up in bed, back to the headboard, I could see her sleeping on the other side of the cottage. Most nights I would watch the slow rise and fall of her chest until sleep claimed me as well, or until I managed to turn my eyes away.

I knew then that I loved her, but it became clear to me that I was incapable of speaking of anything other than medicines, meals or mules. I now know that other young men are often struck with this affliction when faced with their own earthly goddess, and I, at the time nearly twenty-four, was similarly stricken. Nothing, not even words, seemed more important than the curve of her lips, the sound of her voice, or the soft flutter of her long copper hair that had grown down past her delicate waist.

The night that things changed between us, she was waging war on her wind-tangled hair with an old brush, as she prepared for bed. When the brush handle gave a pitiful crack and spilt into two useless pieces, I was watching from the shadows and safety of my bed. I still smile when I remember the curses that fell from her lips as the brush met its fate in the fire.

What happened next, I blame on weakness, curiosity, a warm spring night filled with a million stars, and her hair.

Her hand covered her mouth to stop the cursing, shame reflected in her eyes as she turned to see if I had slept through her disrespectful display. She met my gaze through the dim light as I left my bed and sought out my own hair brush. As I advanced, she sat down on the bed silently, poised to either escape or kneel, depending on my reaction. I sat down beside her, my master's old bed groaning under the weight of two, and took up the slow battle of taming her tousled hair with my ancient brush . Her response was a slight turn away, a soft exhale of breath, and a whispered 'Thank you, Severus.' It was the first time she had addressed me informally, despite my best efforts of the past. Something in my stomach moved uncomfortably and caused my hands to shake. The brush paused in mid-stroke. She turned towards me, took my useless hands in hers, and stole my breath when her mouth met mine.

Until that moment, I knew very little of love, and even less of women, but the gods were kind to me (as I suspect they are to many novices) and allowed my body to disregard any rational thoughts that would have stilled my hands again. I followed her willingly as she collected the large quilt from my bed and led me, with soft kisses, out into the garden. With the blanket still settling on the dew-damp ground, I pulled her down with me and felt for the first, and last time, the consuming union of heart and flesh.

Even after many years, and the heart-shattering emptiness that followed in her absence, I would have gladly relived that night, changing nothing, ready to face the grief of the morning a thousand times. Instead, my dreams replay the early light from the window, the sweet kiss she gave me before pulling on her cloak, and her soft promise to bring back fresh mushrooms for our breakfast.

It was the last time I saw her.

At this point in the tale, the singers will tell you that when she vanished--abducted by a white wolf--I went mad from heartache, drank a magical draught from the Goddess to ease my suffering, and wandered the hills naked, until the wildness took hold and I lay myself as an offering on the shrine alter. A heavy dose of exaggeration is always expected in song, but as I mentioned before, the bards often stumble on a measure of truth.

There was an abduction, but of men, not wolves. Her relatives, uneasy with the amount of time she had spent hidden away with me, an intellectual but by no means wealthy man, had set up a marriage match with Becan, a grandson of the lesser king to the east of the Abbey. They planted seeds of her beauty in his feeble mind, struck a deal of compensation, and sent two of her larger cousins to collect her.

I knew nothing of this plan as I searched the woods until the light was poor. By nightfall, my mind had become a dark place. I did not resort to wailing naked in the shadows, but to say that I was a changed man would not be a lie. Once I had discovered the truth of her departure, by way of threats and curses directed at her family, I tried to follow her. News from the kingdom was that Becan had planned to wed and bed her on the day that she arrived, but Lily's escort had lost her along the way.

She was never found.

I will not give detailed account of the countless nights I spent in a haze of wine and other medications, the days I wasted in my bed while the villagers went without a healer, or the bleak years that turned into a tribute to the demons of self pity, bitterness, and regret. What I will confess to is that I became the man of the song, feared by all, and left alone to curse at the luckless travellers who were not fortunate enough to know of my story.

In all, thirteen years passed, remembered only by the notches I carved on Albus' walking stick each Christmas, and by letters that came from my brother every month. It helped, over time, to write back, confessing a small section of my transgressions to the only person who still cared for me. Because of his status within the Church, he was advised to deny that I was of his blood, and yet he never spoke ill of me or condemned me for my ungodly actions with the girl I had not married. In contrast, he wept for me and prayed for her soul.

Four years ago, he even sent me hope, in the form of a new assistant.

Depression proved to be a poor master, and I had buried enough of my loss to see the wisdom in salvaging the years I had left. I am ashamed to admit it, but there were also selfish reasons why I accepted my brother's offer. Ties with the villagers had been severed, and I was in need of a new, friendly face to present them with if trade and trust would ever again be an option.

It took almost nine months to repair the damage of several years of neglect. The cottage was unfit for guests, the garden had long since gone wild, and there was also the matter of my disagreeable demeanour, but when I was ready, I sent for the boy the letter spoke of, an orphan who had been left at the Monastery gates with only a sealed letter to his name. My brother described a sharp lad of nearly fourteen, able to read and write, but ill suited for a life devoted to God.

A week after I sent for him, I climbed over the crest and down to the dark caves that hid behind the brier, in search of the new crop of mushrooms I knew would be ready for harvest.

Someone was already there.

My mind spun with confusion, and my heart hammered with hope. I had seen the cloak before, hood pulled up and covering a slender form. The fine-boned hands moved with grace as each mushroom dropped into the cloth sack that lay open on the ground. I called out her name before I could stop myself.

Her eyes met mine, but they belonged instead to a young boy.

We were frozen in the moment; two strangers sharing one soul that didn't belong to either of us. Even the forest had grown still. My thoughts were a mess of old weeds and new growth, and it took a moment longer than it should have to convince myself that he was flesh, and not some spirit born of my loneliness. I tried to regroup my venom for his trespassing and thievery, but found that it had melted away. He then wiped a dirty hand over newly wet eyes and asked if I had known her, and if I truly was Severus, Prince of the Woods.

The story-tellers still dispute the truth of this part of the tale, and the last few events I have yet to mention, but on my word, and on the memories of the ones who have gone before me, this is the way it happened.

I gave only a nod to his question, and wondered why he seemed to be silently crying. He fell abruptly to his knees, and shoved a trembling hand into his cloak, as if searching for a knife on his belt. I stepped back on instinct. His eyes came up quickly, and his small voice urged me not to be afraid. A grown man has nothing to fear from a wisp of a boy, but since I promised to report the truth, I'll admit that I was shaken enough that even the sudden jump of a fawn would have been too much. His hand came back into sight, but instead of a weapon, he produced a thick bundle of letters, sealed with the Abbot's seal, and lifted it up to me, head bowed in reverence.

Once the seal was broken, several pages of my brother's handwriting greeted me, as well as a faded page, written by some other hand, that fell loose from the collection. It landed in the boy's upturned palms, but he brought it to his chest almost at once, as if it were sacred. 'This is the letter she left addressed to your br—the Abbot, the day she left me in the care of the monks' he told me, embracing the yellowed parchment. I turned back to my brother's letters in my hand and read part of the first page, my heart in my throat.

 __  
Severus,

It is my pleasure and honour to at last be writing this letter, and to know it will be presented to you by the boy I have grown to love as much as I loved his mother. I have also included the original letter that was with the child when he first came to us, because it rightly belongs to the both of you, and I have kept it safe long enough.

I am sorry, dear brother, for the deception, but her wishes were for me to educate and care for him until your heart had healed, or until he was nearing fourteen, the same age as she was when you brought her to Albus. I have waited long years to present the boy to you, but this day is not for me, it belongs to my brother and his son.

My eyes snapped from the paper as the truth was finally revealed to me.

The boy gasped at my stunned appearance as the papers shook like autumn leaves in my trembling hands. I must have been white, but a sudden wave of heat enveloped me, and I sank to my knees. I set the letters on the bed of scattered mushrooms and took his face firmly between my hands. I sounded like a stranger, my voice high with emotion, as I looked into familiar green eyes and asked if he knew what was written in the letters. Tears fell as he nodded and covered my hands with his own. Even now, I can hear his whispered 'yes, father' over the shrill cry of a Merlin Falcon, and the sound of the kisses I pressed into his hair.

She had named him Harry, but the monks had insisted on calling him Henry, meaning 'home ruler'. They thought it a more fitting name. My brother and I called him as his mother had intended, and his eyes shone the first time I spoke it.

Considering thirteen years of missed conversations, I was surprised at how quickly we became comfortable with each other. We both expected an awkwardness that never materialised. I spoke freely to him of his mother, and he provided stories of his life at the Abbey and his love for the forest and all things that grew wild. I taught him all I knew, and witnessed the same hunger to learn that Albus must have seen reflected in my own eyes. For one who grew up surrounded by the Church, Harry was willing to open his mind to recognise the gods of the forests as well, and took to caring for the forest shrine with the maturity of someone well beyond his years.

I would have thought that Lily's tale of escape, bravery and sacrifice would have been documented by the ones who exchanged copper for a song, but other than her own letter, and the few poems Harry and I wrote for her, nothing else has been recorded until now. Perhaps one day, my son will tell his own children about his mother's flight from her escort, how she hid herself in both village and cave, neglecting her own health and happiness for that of her son, eventually placing him in the care of his uncle when it became evident that Becan's trackers would not rest until they found her. On the other hand, the wandering minstrels, men of superstition, have always been convinced that Lily was the true Hill Goddess from the song that she once sang so sweetly, and that the young man with hair like my own before the grey, was her parting gift to an aging enchanter who was almost lost to darkness.

Fact or fable, my son, my love's parting gift, grew up strong and brave, but also humble, with a willingness to serve either king or peasant. He is both his mother and I, and yet he is his very own being, and has become, now at seventeen, a man that I am most honoured and proud to know.

There are times, even now, when dark thoughts of Lily's lonely death and how I could have done nothing to protect her settle on my mind. Harry will always notice the shadows in my eyes, bring a warm blanket, kneel at my feet and place his head on my knees. In turn, I stroke his hair, tell him the gods are jealous, and suggest he find himself a wife before they claim him as their own. He will laugh, rise to kiss his father's cheek, and tell me it's too late--he has already been claimed.

Somewhere Albus is laughing quietly and placing words in the heads of the bards. And if we are very fortunate, he may just add a morsel of truth.

~*~  
The song **Goddess of the Hills** that Lily sings, was created by me.

Information about:  
[Mary Stewart](http://www.answers.com/topic/mary-stewart)  
[The legend of Merlin](http://www.camelotintl.com/legend/merlin.html)  
[Religions of Britain](http://www.romans-in-britain.org.uk/arl_roman_religion_and_beliefs.htm)  
Merlin Falcon- [a bird of prey](http://www.johnsoutherngallery.co.uk/asps/uploads/big/738-1.jpg)


	2. Children of the Goddess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To honour his family's legacy of secret letters, Harry records the story of his life – a tale of visions, destiny, sorrow, heroes, and unexpected love.

Disclaimer: HP, Arthurian legend, and the worlds created by JKR, Mary Stewart, and Stephen R. Lawhead are not mine. Damn it.  
Summary: **To honour his family's legacy of secret letters, Harry records the story of his life – a tale of visions, destiny, sorrow, heroes, and unexpected love.**

Notes: This follows the Arthurian tone of Prince of the Woods, but this time we read Harry's account of his life in the forest and the series of events that bring him face to face with the subject of his visions. I hadn't planned on writing this sequel at all, but when I read the wedding scene out of Taliesin, the first book of the [Pendragon Cycle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pendragon_Cycle) by Stephen R. Lawhead, all these little Harry/Draco bunnies began nipping at me to write their story. This was another labour of love for me, and I love losing myself in this universe. I hope you enjoy it as well.  
 **ETA:** If you have never read Mary Stewart or Stephen R. Lawhead, you will still understand these two fics. These are not crossovers, just an AU Harry Potter tale with an old world feel.  
Questions, comments and feedback are always welcome.

Children of the Goddess

I owe this honest account of my life in the forest to: my kind uncle, the Abbot, who took in this bastard child, to my father, whom I will always love, who forbade me to waste my education, and to my mother, who gave her life for mine.

There is one other who deserves to be remembered - my true reason for writing this tale. The history keepers, and the other Bards have chosen to omit him, but I will not. If no one ever finds these letters, I will still be satisfied that I have fulfilled my promises to those I love, and my conscience will be clear when I cross over into the Other World.

I should start with a proper introduction.

The monks called me Henry, and sometimes 'nuisance' when I lived among them; the people in the nearby villages call me Healer or Holy Man. 

Those who know me well, call me Harry. 

I was nearing a year old when my mother left me in the care of the monks – to save my life when she had become too ill to care for the both of us. My days within the walls of the Abbey were filled with hours of prayer to a god who never seemed to hear me, countless lessons in Latin, and an unquenchable aching to be anywhere else. 

In the late spring of my fourteenth year, my life truly began. 

One warm morning, a month before my birthday, I was high up in the great pear tree that grew over the south wall, gazing down into the valley, and pretending to prune away the old growth. I nearly fell when the Abbot himself called my name. Fearing a punishment for neglecting my duties, I hurried down and followed him silently into his office.

I stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed as I received a family name, an unexpected uncle, a new job, and my freedom - all in one short hour.

It was nearly impossible to contain the joy I felt; I was so eager to begin my search for this Doctor in the woods - my father - that I nearly ran out the front gates without shoes or provisions for the journey. My possessions became quickly irrelevant when I met three thieves within my first hour on the main road. They left me unwounded, but with very little else, except a harsh lesson learned about the nature of some men, and the bundle of letters I cherished, tucked deep in my cloak. Although I was hungry and without coverings for my feet, I kept off the roads from that point on, following a series of landmarks my uncle made me memorise. I arrived at sunset several days later, with my new master's home just over the next rise.

Even though I had only been allowed to pray to the One God, stories had reached me of the Goddess who roamed this forest, and of the Old Ones who tended it for her. Out of respect for the place I would soon call my home, I fell to my knees in the new growth, and spoke to the Goddess for the first time, telling her of my journey and of my intention to be a good steward in her realm. When I opened my eyes, an overgrown path that I had not noticed before, lay ahead of me. In the cool shadow of the next hill, a family of untouched mushrooms were laid out like a feast that had been waiting to be discovered. The sack that once held my belongings became home to the best of the batch; it was the only offering I had to give in return for the simple, but very welcome meal.

Someone whispered my mother's name.

I looked up and froze.

That's how he found me: crouching in the dirt, stealing his crop, staring at a face so similar to mine. We knew each other in an instant, and yet we had never met before. 

Our life together began with tears: tears of sadness for the woman we both loved, but would never see again, and tears of joy, knowing her final wish had been fulfilled. He was pleased with the way I took quickly to life in the hills, if not more than a little exhausted by my endless questions about the many ways of healing, the names of everything that grew within our reach, and the stories of the gods and spirits who allowed us to live beneath their trees. In letters to my uncle, father would often say that I was born for this life. In the years ahead I would come to believe it as truth.

Even now, knowing every tree, rock, creature, and change in the wind, I still find peace – the same today as the evening that I felt the cool ferns below my bare feet for the first time.

But I do not want to fall prey to the temptation of painting an ideal picture of myself; I promised a true and honest telling. 

The same as any other young boy, I had an abundance of curiosity as well as passion, and wasn't immune to the lure of hunting, the rush of a fist fight, or the smile of a pretty girl. The summer of my sixteenth year, I went as far as to hurry through my evening duties to meet up with the spirited daughter of the blacksmith. I can still picture her hair, the colour of copper, and hear her laughter through the trees. We shared a few kisses, but more often spent our time fishing in the brook, talking about our father's trades, and avoiding her several brothers.

On my seventeenth birthday I had my first vision by fire, and it was then I knew why I had always seemed different from the other boys and young men that I had met. 

I spent hours kneeling at my father's feet, listening to his beautiful stories of my mother before I worked up enough courage to confess that I had seen something in the flames. He stayed silent for a moment before taking my face into his rough hands and fixing his eyes on mine. Almost immediately the vision rushed forward and reanimated without my permission. I watched again, helpless as a strange city burned bright against the darkness, its inhabitants – tall, fair, and still in night clothes - fled blindly in every direction, made stupid with panic and the unsteadiness of the quaking ground beneath their feet. A spear had been thrust into the ground and a flag hung from its blunt end. It alone remained untouched in the chaos. The symbol on the snow-white cloth was that of The Evil Eye, but instead of piercing blue, it stood out red and was encircled by Ouroboros – the black serpent who forever eats his own tail.

There had been peace in our land since my father's childhood. Therefore, we concluded that my vision was a warning of things to come – a dark time for both the unfamiliar land and people we had seen; a time when someone would appear, someone of great power and very little compassion. The sign of the serpent worried us the most, since it suggested immortality for the bringer of destruction, or at least implied that whoever it was would be near-impossible to defeat or overthrow.

The Sight abandoned me for several years, and as much as I cherished the days filled with contentment at my father's side, at times I missed the feel of the magic that had once flowed through me, regardless of the terrifying images that accompanied it.

With each new summer, I slowly took over the task of selling our medicines to the outlying regions, allowing my father to tend to the duties close to home; with each turning autumn, we both tried to ignore his wet cough and shaking hands.

The Doctor was ill - my father was dying. In my selfish pain, I nearly cursed the gods as well as the unfair irony of our situation, but my father's worn hands on my wet cheeks made the angry thoughts and words fall back into the darkness - unsaid and no longer important.

Christmas of my twentieth year came and went, and the task of adding another notch to Master Albus' walking stick fell to me. I remember our meal was simple, but the night was filled with music as I sang every song I knew. Father smiled warmly after each poor rendition, and looked as if the long day had taken its toll on him, but I kept playing, unwilling to face the cold chill in my heart that told me I would be the only one left to greet the New Year. I had never begged for anything before, but not satisfied with our short time together, I made my request. Eyes closed, and voice lifted in strained song, I silently pleaded with the Goddess to allow us to have just one more season together.

Her answer was no.

For the next six months I was a walking shell, an orphan for the second time, unwilling to face the bitter hollowness that followed me in the daylight, and haunted me at night. When he knew death was near, my father warned me of the pain that would come, and made me promise that I wouldn't allow it to consume me the way it had nearly destroyed him when my mother had vanished. Months later his words still rang in my ears, and yet I performed my tasks without thought, moving from house to garden to shrine, unaware of the sounds of the forest, the movement of the sun or of my Uncle's unopened letters.

Once the snow had melted enough to allow passage to the shrine, I did find a small portion of comfort in the offerings there: Birch leaves for healing and rebirth, Alder bark for strength and to make a barrier against the darkness, and lastly, food and milk enough to keep me from a tempting diet of wine while I mourned. It was the villager's subtle way of showing their sympathy while at the same time pleasing the gods and keeping their young healer alive for their own benefit.

When June arrived, the warmer winds and the sounds of the forest's rebirth nudged me into laying my grief aside and greeting the life I still had ahead of me. I walked to the base of the old Oak - where my father and his master lay side by side - shed my last tears for him, and then visited the shrine at sunset to make my offering. Some of the people in the village have told me they heard music on the wind that night, but as I burned the dried Honeysuckle and fresh Furze and stared into the mixture of flames and sweet smoke, the only sounds that played on the breeze were the same as every other evening. To spare the gods, I did not sing.

They rewarded me with a second vision.

Out of the smoke, a cloaked figure arose and laid a bundle of herbs on the altar, wrapped them in a strip of fine linen, and then raised open hands to the sky, palms up, invoking the gods to accept the gift. As I tried to get closer, to see more detail, the fire went suddenly out, and the smoke curled in on itself, and was taken into the darkness.

That night I replayed the moment in a dream, taking time to examine each detail to my full satisfaction, spending a great deal of time on the stranger's hands: pale skin, elegant long fingers. Beautiful hands.

Hands made for music. 

From this point on, the Bards and I part ways. In their version, I saw a prophecy of my future that night, something wicked that poisoned my mind, causing my judgement to cloud, and my actions to be unfitting of someone who claimed to serve the gods. They were only half right. I did see my future, but the message was a balm, not a poison, although even that was not made clear to me until many weeks later. Even now, the old men still make the sign against evil behind their backs whenever our paths cross. As long as my Nettle and Lavender salves continue to ease the aching in their bones, they keep their disgust for me largely hidden. 

The next morning the offering wrapped in linen was there – just as it had been revealed in the fire. With shaking hands I pulled back the folds to reveal a bright collection of Calendula - Marigold. It rarely grows this far north, but the flowers were as fresh and as yellow as the morning sun. I stood amazed at the rare gift and the message of remembrance and comfort it conveyed. I made oil from the flowers, leaves and stems and set it in a place of honour on the window ledge, but could not as easily set aside my curiosity. Man, woman, or spirit - I wanted to uncover the figure in the cloak and solve the riddle, but without my father's gift of interpretation, I was left to unearth the truth for myself.

That night I left a cutting of Sweet Basil - wrapped in the same linen – to show my thanks and communicate good wishes, but in the morning I was disappointed to see it had not moved. However, when I unfolded the fabric to discard the Basil, I found it had been replaced with Lavender - a sign of acceptance and trust. I smiled the rest of the day. That evening I left three shoots of braided Rosemary to communicate how the offerings and our conversation, however limited, had revived my spirit. 

I placed the lavender on my pillow that night, and dreamed again of the graceful creature with the exquisite hands. I woke to a sweet scent heavy on the air, and a new day of possibilities. 

I ran to the altar, and was greeted with a bouquet of Goldenrod. The forest quieted around me as I pondered over the offering. It represented change, and suggested that a decision was being made on the part of my stranger. I went to bed that evening after covering the altar with Sage. When the figure with the perfect hands arrived, I prayed it would be clear that I respected whatever decision they were making. I had my suspicions, but I shared them only with the soft pillow under my head as sleep claimed me for a few hours.

In my fitful sleep the dream came once more; this time the hands slowly reached up to lower the hood. I watched in stunned silence as a beautiful woman with corn silk hair and shining blue eyes was revealed. I had never seen her equal. The wind began circling her slender form, kicking up leaves and dust from the garden we now occupied. When I looked up through the debris, her hood was pulled in place once again, and the cloak billowed and whipped at her pale forearms. As her hands rose again to her hidden face, I saw a round shadow on her otherwise flawless arm. I reached out, but before I could breech the whirlwind that tightened protectively around her, I awoke.

I barely waited for the sun to show itself before making my way up the well worn path. The stone surface was clean; not a trace of Sage remained. My message had been received, and it was again my turn to wait. 

It was also the first season that both the selling and preparing of my father's medicines fell to me alone, as well as sole care of the cottage, mules and property. I wasn't able to travel as far, or as long as I had when my father was alive, but since word had spread of his death, many chose to come to me for what they needed, rather than wait until my next visit. I was thankful the sun stayed in the sky a little longer each evening, allowing me to fill the additional hours with my never-ending list of tasks – keeping my mind occupied as my impatience stirred. When I had time to travel through the villages and hamlets, a few young ladies would come to my cart with sweet breads and transparent smiles – most likely on orders from their mothers – but I did little more than thank them before returning to my work. 

They all had the wrong hands.

Offerings came and went, but the linen strip and its owner seemed to have made their choice and had moved on to someone more worthy. I made peace with my disappointment, and had one cup too many before bed each night, to make sure my dreams stayed in the darkness where they belonged.

What I remember of the morning my dreams became flesh will forever stay burned into my memory.

She was facing the altar when I arrived - her back to me, silhouetted in the glow of the morning sun. I remember assuring myself that I was not dreaming this time, but it took more than once to be fully convinced. She turned at the crunching of the ground under my bare feet, but I still could not see her face. My heart thundered in my chest, and I was certain she could hear it too. I mumbled out a respectful greeting, staring all the while at her hands – more angular than in the dream, and a fraction thicker, but still perfect. 

She knelt and bowed low. "Are you the one they call Henry, Prince of the Woods, the enchanter who tends the shrine?" 

The voice did not sound as I had imagined it, and I was startled into a dumb silence as my skin flushed at the formal greeting. I nodded and at last remembered my words, extending a hand to help her rise. "Yes. Please, call me Harry." Her grip was firm and sure, and I reluctantly let go after the polite amount of time had passed. 

Twenty-one years wise, and I could do little more than blush the colour of the roses that grew up my kitchen wall. I wasn't sure what I was feeling, but I had never felt it until that moment. My mind raced with possibilities; perhaps at long last the Goddess was blessing me with my match, someone suited to share the work and joys of this sort of life – a beautiful stranger who respected the old ways.

She raised her hands to remove the hood, and the black shadow caught my eye. I caught her arm before she could pull away, but she didn't resist the inspection, merely lowered her still-hidden face and sighed.

A slave brand – a large eye cradled in the center of a great serpent consuming its own tail.

I dropped the arm as my vision spun. The hood fell back and corn silk hair spilled out onto slender shoulders. A long sweeping neck led up to strong but delicate features, and the eyes were still shining, but silver-blue now, the exact colour of a crane I had once seen in the wet lands.

"My name is Draco," he said.

I can still feel words of both anger and confusion as they fought to come pouring out at the same time. I was hot from head to foot, shaking with shock and disbelief. I felt betrayed by my dreams, fooled by my heart, and saddened by my naive hopes that _this_ had been the one the gods had chosen for me.

I'm ashamed to confess that I left him standing there alone in the wake of my sudden and confusing storm. It wasn't the first time I had acted on impulse and allowed my emotions to rule the situation, but the false vision had shaken me enough that the instinct to flee was the only weapon that responded when I called. I retreated to the safety and loneliness of my cottage, the young man at the shrine cluttering my thoughts.

I woke up several times that night, wet with sweat and burning with shame from dreams that wouldn't be tamed with drink. 

In the first vision, he was kneeling in front of the altar that held a pitcher of wine and a single bowl. The full moon overhead lit up his face and bare shoulders as he turned, beckoning me to join him. I had never before in my short life seen anything so beautiful. As I knelt, he poured a small portion of the wine into the bowl, drank it down, refilled it, and offered it to me with a soft smile. My hands shook as I understood what ritual we were performing, what ancient vows we were about to share. 

I drank down every drop.

He then removed the pitcher and bowl as I placed two cedar boughs and two wreaths of ivy on the stone surface. His right hand clasped mine while his left called fire to consume our offering. As it burned, and I began to wake from the dream, I heard our voices on the wind: 'No longer two, but one. You are my home.'

In the second dream, I was planting, elbow deep in the dirt of the garden; he pushed the hair from my eyes and kissed my mouth once before disappearing back into the cottage. I had very little time to savour the contentment I felt before I was again thrust out of the vision and back into my own room. 

The last dream was my downfall; he rose gracefully from the bath, slipped his damp body into a night shirt and then lit the tapers with fire from the air. I sat up in bed as he moved closer and offered me his perfect hands. I wanted him there, wanted to be with him - wanted him in the way that would satisfy the aching that spread through every nerve like a grass fire.

What I needed from him was a mountain's height away from what the laws of God and the respected folk demanded – and still I wanted him, craved him.

I woke when our eyes and fingertips met.

On the altar the next morning a wreath of grape vine rested on a bed of Elder Leaves. I lifted the wreath, accepting his offer to reveal the truth to me, to no longer hide behind offerings, cloaks or slave brands. I ran my hand over the Elder leaves – no branches or twigs buried underneath - respect for the sacred tree. The message puzzled me and I could not decide on an interpretation. Elder is known as the tree of witches, but others believed it to be kin to the Faery folk. I thought again of the young man, of how his pale skin, fair hair, willowy frame and height contrasted with the winter-hardened, wind-leathered people of our region.

Not wishing to anger the Faeries, I gathered the leaves and spent the afternoon making them into medicine for the villagers and a balm for keeping the flies away from the mules.

He came to my door that evening bearing a large cluster of Rowan berries and a skin of wine. As I poured the wine and hung the berries above the door - fighting to keep my questions and blushing to a minimum - he sat in my father's chair and told me his tale.

Draco was from the West lands, born on an isle I had never heard of, where there had been others like him: orchard people who had never seen a battle; tall and fair - perfectly suited to the warmer climate and mild winters. His father, a wealthy land owner, had befriended a charismatic man from the East, who gave expensive gifts and spoke of great power and of an alliance between their houses. The outlander soon declared himself Lord of the new clan and continued to add many more men and families to his cause, promising prosperity and increased wealth and power if all were loyal to him. Draco's father, drunk with the taste of future rewards, threw himself and his family full into this new life of great promise.

He was dead a week later after refusing to lead his beautiful wife to his new master's bed.

Out of fear for the life of her young son, his mother agreed to marry the murderer, but they were branded with the symbol of their new Lord, so there would be no question of to whom they now belonged. 

Every child of his seed died within one year – seven in all.

Draco believed his mother had power over such things. She had women's magic, a different version of The Sight, and in the dark years that followed, she taught Draco how to identify the gender of an unborn child, taught him the names of the flowers and herbs needed for protecting one's thoughts from another, and finally, how to pull fire from the air.

Draco eventually became his step-father's personal pride, although he never showed the man more than polite obedience, for the sake of his mother. He played the game, waiting for the day he would be able to free them both from the man who had become no better than a tyrant – a man who eventually took pleasure in the pain of his own people. When he felt the time was right, Draco executed plan after plan, but no poison, venom or staged accident succeed in ridding him of their problem.

That was the night Draco went to his mother – the night she lowered her hood in my dream. With her offering on the small altar in her chamber, she called to the gods of the elements, gods she knew – hoped- were more powerful than the snake who called himself a Lord, and prayed that they would protect her son, and bring destruction to the evil that had settled in their land of Summer. 

Draco dropped his head into his hands, unable to stop the shaking or the tears as he forced himself to remember. I knelt at his feet and took his hands in mine. His head snapped up, and I thought his eyes would burn right through me – shining with pain and loss. I shared my vision with him then – what I had seen happen to his people - and still, he did not pull away. In contrast, he seemed relieved, grateful for my understanding.

He finished the emotional story for me then, his eyes and hands never leaving mine.

The gods responded to his mother's pain, in a way that no one remembers now, except in songs that Draco eventually wrote to honour her. The rumble of the earth tore at the foundations of the island and angered the fire that exploded out of the entire south side of their mountain. The winds scattered ash and carried the burning rain to the fruit trees and the villages, finally sweeping into the room where the beautiful woman stood, her arms raised in supplication.

She shouted at Draco to get to the wharf, but he wouldn't leave her. She commanded him again, a tunnel of air lifting her off of the ground – her hair wild like a Willow in a storm, and still he would not leave. His step-father entered the room, eyes cold and empty. Her hand shot out of the whirlwind, and fire instantly rose to her fingertips.

It left a smouldering hole where the Lord's heart was meant to be.

Draco watched the body fall, and yet the chaos continued to build, as if once started, nature's forces would not be stilled until destruction was total. His mother was losing control, but before the wind took her, she called out her love for him once more, and ordered him to the docks.

Three days later, he was found floating in a battered boat, burnt by the sun and needing water, but alive – his homeland as well as thousands of lives destroyed by a wicked man's ambition and his mother's love. 

Weeks of walking, singing for coins or a meal, and helping the sick along the way, led him to one of the nearby villages, where he heard of a Seer, a Healer, who had lost his master or father, and was in desperate need of a wife or an assistant. The gossip he absorbed from both the highly intoxicated and the very young – although not completely accurate - was enough to guide him to the shrine to pay tribute to my father, and announce his arrival with Marigold carried from the south. 

The words of his story ran out around the same time as the wine. He helped me to my feet and seemed reluctant to release my hands. I invited him to stay. 

One night of watching him squirm uncomfortably in the too-small bed by the fire, was enough to make me offer half of my own bed to him the next evening. He slept soundly beside me, but it was my turn at a restless night – fighting to keep my mind and body from reminding me of the dreams that made the aching to touch him return.

By the end of the first week, our strange dance of mutual attraction – one that massaged the limits of wholesome friendship - became too obvious to ignore. I cherished every tentative touch and warm glance that he initiated, nearly weeping from the brush of lips I felt on my cheek in the night when he thought I was sleeping; but what I truly wanted from him – what I believed the gods intended for us – I would not force, or even acknowledge as more than just a dream if he didn't want the very same. 

I took him down to the brook after visiting the shrine at dawn and showed him the place where fish could always be found. When I didn't immediately speak after some time, he took my hand, sat us down in the cool grasses, and sang me a song his mother had sung to him as a child. Unlike my voice, his was clear, pleasant, and stirred the very core of forest in a way that made the air around us feel much warmer. I was so caught up in the song, and in its story of the love lost between the ocean and the stars, that I almost missed the press of lips to my fingertips once the song had come to a close. His expression showed a hint of wariness, but his eyes held a confidence that I took strength from. 

I knew then that it was time.

I told him – through a mix of fear and embarrassment - of the visions I had seen of the two of us, leaving no detail untold. He listened quietly, taking shallow breaths until I had finished. When I had the courage to meet his gaze, I saw cheeks stained pink, and eyes filled with determination. He wanted to know if I desired what I had seen in the dreams. I lowered my eyes and nodded, holding my breath. He lifted my chin with an elegant finger, smiled softly, and announced that there were preparations to make.

I was confused when he led me to the shrine, and left with instructions for me to prepare for our evening offering. He returned – bare to the waist and his hair pulled away from his face - with six Whitethorn flowers floating in a bowl of water. 

He set down the bowl, took both my hands in his, and then confessed that he also wanted what my dreams had revealed – had wanted it from the moment I had invited him into my home that first night - but was also wary of the weight of our decision. While caressing my fingers, he told me that his mother had taught him the way to know if the Goddess approved of a union between two seeking souls. He then explained that the offering was simply placed on the altar and a prayer was raised up. If the flowers burned and the water stayed cool, the couple would say their vows at sunrise on the day of the new moon; if the water boiled, they would pledge themselves to each other under the next full moon. If the offering remained untouched, the union was not blessed.

I nodded my permission, removed my shirt, and turned us both to face the altar – and our fate. I knew what I had seen of our union, but my heart still pounded with both hope and fear as he clasped my hand, and sang out the prayer that called on the Faery fire. In an instant, we had our answer. 

The full moon was expected the very next evening. We would belong to each other in less than a day's time. 

He slept deeply that night, the ritual having taken some of his strength, but my mind was churning again with the weight of our decision, and the consequences we would face if the people of the villages knew of our planned union.

I was watching him as the early-morning haze slowly brought the new day into my room. Our room. All at once there were eyes looking back into mine. I held my breath, still staring as an elegant finger moved to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. When it stubbornly fell free again, it was my hand that smoothed it back. His lowered eyes and soft humming made it difficult to pull away, and as his hand wrapped around my wrist, I found leaving unnecessary – impossible.

From then on, he was my life.

He weathered the Winters as best as one so fair could manage, and would go into the villages at any time of the day or night when there was a child due to be born. With the help of the Goddess and his mother's teachings, Draco brought over three hundred souls into the world, and delivered them into the arms of their mothers and proud fathers. I know the stories behind all of their births, and as they grow, I am comforted by Draco's hidden legacy among the ones who are still growing strong – now with families of their own.

We shared twenty years in all before his heart decided it had grown tired. He allowed the people to call him my assistant, although in my heart and home, he was my equal. What we were to each other – the true nature of our relationship - was not revealed to, or would have been understood by many, if anyone at all, but the Goddess had a hand in bringing us together, and a reason– there were too many signs to believe otherwise. 

He now lies next to my father and master Albus. 

It took several months to allow my grief to diminish, and to adapt to the stillness of the house and the faint ache that pulls at my heart every time my hand finds the empty pillow next to mine.

In the autumn of last year I caught a young child stealing a loaf of black bread from the shrine. Under the dirt that took several baths to remove, was a boy of seven or eight with golden hair and pale green eyes, who trembled as if I was going to beat him instead of offer him shelter. He nodded or shook his head in answer to simple questions, but remained silent when I asked anything else, even his name. I asked about him in the villages, but no one seemed to know him. 

It isn't very common now, but occasionally parents will give children who are _incomplete_ \- deaf, blind, or crippled from birth – back to the gods to care for once a perfect child is born to the family. I suspected that this was how my silent thief had arrived at my shrine.

He never told me his given name, but once I taught him his letters, he chose a new name for himself: Channing – little wolf. The singers may eventually pen a song or two in his honour once I am gone. He has shown his capacity for swift learning, and has a deep love for every living thing. I have seen fawns rest beside him at the river banks, small birds land in his open hands, and wolves run from his warning glare. He is a comfort to a lonely old man and will inherit this life when I finally join my family below the old Oak.

I have told Channing where I intend to hide these letters – along with my mother's letter, my father's pages and Draco's songs - so that one day, perhaps he will also add his story, and our words will find their way into the hands of someone who will preserve the memory of this strange family – a family who devoted their lives to the forest, to each other, and to the Goddess of the woods.

~*~

More notes:  
The Language of herbs borrowed from [DailyOM](http://www.dailyom.com/articles/2005/406.html) and [Language of Trees](http://www.uponreflection.co.uk/ogham/trees_set1.htm)

[Ouroboros and the Evil Eye](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c3/Wappen-Listringen.png) (I found this picture on the _after_ I wrote the description of the flag. It's not exactly the same, but pretty darn close. *smile*)


End file.
